


Blackwood Hall

by festivalofpudding (berreh)



Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Jane Eyre Fusion, Isn't it Byronic, M/M, Regency, Slow(ish) Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-06 04:14:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12203670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berreh/pseuds/festivalofpudding
Summary: The story of a modest young tutor and his mysteriously tallemployer





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. The January sun was too dull and watery to put forth any warmth, and since daybreak — if one could call the dreary grey gloom beyond the library windows ‘day’ — a biting wind had brought with it clouds so heavy and somber, and a rain so penetrating, that outdoor exercise was out of the question. Standing before the panes with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the cold drops collect on the mullion, Charles thought it a pity that his students would miss their morning walk. They grew so restless without the benefit of a respite; he would be obliged to provide them some other means of recreation, or unruliness would be the certain result.

“Sir?”

In the glass he saw reflected one of the older boys, peeping cautiously around the library door.

“Yes, what is it, Thomas?”

“Headmaster wants you, sir. He got summat for you.”

“He...?”

“He has something for you.”

A smile took the sting from the correction. “Thank you. Go and tell the others we will begin in a quarter of an hour. No stragglers.”

“Yes, sir.”

The boy scurried away down the corridor, leaving Charles alone once more. His gaze lingered a moment longer on the bleak view through the window: the naked branches dripping their rainy tears, the rivulets slithering like serpents down the glass; and then he abandoned the cold silence of the library for less dismal surroundings. As he crossed the central corridor, the sound of boyish voices reciting arithmetic and historical dates and Latin grammar brought a smile to his face. This was his favorite hour of the morning: not too early, not too late. At this hour the mind was sharp and the body alert, fully roused from sleep but not yet fatigued by work or distracted by play. Soon he would listen to his students debate the divine right of kings versus the merits of republican government; perhaps afterward, in lieu of a turn in the gardens, a game of blind-man’s-buff could be arranged in the gallery.

The headmaster’s door stood open, as was customary during the morning hours; nevertheless Charles paused at the entrance and gave a light rap upon the jamb.

“Sir? You asked for me?”

“Ah, yes; do come in.” The headmaster, a strict but goodhearted man of late middle age, plucked a letter from atop the stacks on his desk and held it out as Charles approached. “This arrived for you with the morning post.”

Even before touching it Charles could see that the writing paper was of very fine quality, sealed with red wax and addressed in a steady hand to _C.N., Harnett School, Lillington, Lincolnshire_. The use of his initials caused his heart to beat a little quicker in his breast. Could this be a reply, and so soon? His advertisement had not yet run a single fortnight — surely such things took weeks to come to fruition. And yet... With trembling fingers, he broke the wax seal and unfolded the letter to read it aloud.

_If C.N., who advertised in the Lincolnshire Herald, is in a position to give satisfactory references as to character and competency, a situation can be offered him where there is but one pupil, a little boy under ten years of age; and where the salary is thirty pounds per annum. He is requested to send references and all particulars to Mrs. E. Basset, Blackwood Hall, near Fairfield, Derbyshire._

For a moment he could only stare at the brief note without response. The headmaster, however, was nodding in approval.

“A satisfactory offer indeed.”

“Blackwood Hall... What family owns that?”

“I cannot recall the name, but I believe it is baronet of some local standing.”

A baronet! Imagine — himself, Charles Neal, the epitome of rural obscurity, tutoring a baronet’s son. It was hardly to be believed. Again he read the lines of clear, feminine writing in case his eyes had deceived him. Thirty pounds a year! More than twice the salary he currently received. Were his abilities worthy of such a sum? Did he possess the qualifications necessary to educate an aristocrat, even one so young? All at once, doubts and anxieties began to seep into his elation.

“Derbyshire is so far away,” he said softly. “I had hoped to be somewhat nearer to Harnett.”

“It is an admirable position,” replied the headmaster, “particularly for a young man of your years. You are twenty-five now, Charles; the time has long since passed for you to have embarked upon your own career. I did not press the matter because I know how fond you are of the children, as they are of you. I have watched you grow to manhood in this house, and you have exceeded my expectations in every way. Perhaps in the future you will return and take up a professorship here, but in the meantime you must not be afraid to make your own way in the world. Do not doubt yourself, Charles. Who knows where this road may take you?” Discreetly he retrieved the letter and carefully refolded it. “I shall write your character reference myself. The superintendent will no doubt add his own recommendation, and the board will have no objections. Unless this miserable weather continues, the road to Derbyshire should be clear for travel within a few weeks; if all goes well, you may be able to take up your new position by Candlemas.”

Charles stood before the desk, at a loss to reply; overwhelmed both by the headmaster’s words and the implications of them. At length the great clock in the corner chimed a quarter past the hour and he stammered: “Oh! I must go to my class. I— thank you, sir, I will—that is—”

“Yes, of course, go,” was the congenial and slightly amused reply. “It wouldn’t do to be tardy to your own lecture. We shall talk more after supper tonight.”

As he made his way back down the long corridor, his hands clasped again behind his back to prevent their fidgeting, Charles became aware that he had the most nonsensical smile plastered across his face. With great effort he managed to remove it just before reaching his classroom door; he must not let his inner jubilation show, or else it would provoke frivolity in the boys. The divine right of kings was no laughing matter. After the debate, however, he thought perhaps he might join his students in their game of blind-man’s-buff. Perhaps he would even lead the first round. It would be a pleasant memory to add to his collection.

~

January plodded by at its wintry pace, but by February all things were ready for Charles’ departure. There was a paper of carefully collected well-wishes from his older students, and a few tears from the younger (indeed, it took all his self-control not to join them); the elder professors gifted him a traveler’s book of Psalms, while his fellow teachers presented him with a leather-bound journal in which to record his adventures, with the jesting caveat that he must not allow his head to grow too large in his new position. All the particulars from his employer were in order, and so he packed his modest belongings, dressed himself in his traveling clothes, and bid farewell to the only home he had known since childhood.

The weather had improved somewhat, meaning the constant dripping rain had lightened to a constant fine drizzle. On the morning he left Harnett School just before dawn, a cold mist swirled around him as he boarded the coach that would take him from Lincolnshire to Derbyshire. The journey was long, tedious, and uncomfortable both physically and mentally: physically due to the ill-kept road, hard wooden seat, and drafty windows; and mentally due to the presence of other passengers, which necessitated at least an attempt at polite conversation. Fortunately none were of a talkative sort, and after reading for a few hours Charles pushed his hat forward on his brow and settled himself against the bench’s side to sleep. An elderly passenger expressed doubts that anyone could sleep in that swaying vehicle; but that gentleman had never met Charles Neal. When next he was aware, the coach had stopped, and he rubbed his eyes and sat up as he realized they had reached their destination.

At Fairfield he waited at the inn to be retrieved. Suppertime had come and gone, but the lingering smells from the kitchen made him recall that he had not eaten since dawn. He was about to ask for a cold roll when he heard a voice inquire: “Is there a Mr. Neal here?” The speaker was a genial-looking young man who introduced himself as the groundsman of the estate. He seemed rather young for such a position, perhaps younger than Charles himself; he had a ruddy face and close-cropped red beard, and his manner was pleasant and amiable. He fetched Charles’ luggage and led the way to a small wagon drawn by a single horse; they were obliged to share the driver’s bench, as it was the only seat. Shivering in his coat, Charles tried to prevent his teeth from chattering as they drove away from the lights of Fairfield and into the pitch-black countryside, guided only by a single lamp swinging from the wagon’s lead. The darkness was impenetrable, the country wild and lonely, and the wind bitter, but his escort seemed affected by none of this.

“Tha’rt the new tutor, then?”

“Yes. My n-name is Ch-Charles.”

“Micah. It’ll be nice to have a new face about; we ain’t had company in ages. Lord, but it’s cold out tonight! We best get a move on before tha freeze.”

He urged the horse onward, and the wagon picked up speed. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness Charles recognized the shapes of trees all about them, gradually thinning as the road curved around a hill and into a wide valley. At the bottom of the next hill he could just make out the lights of a small village; and on the hilltop above, the battlements of a great stone house barely visible against the heavy night sky. Few lights burned within its windows, surprisingly few for such a large house; perhaps everyone had retired for the night, or the windows were well-curtained. As they drew closer Charles felt that the great dark house seemed almost to loom over him, rather foreboding like an ancient fortress, and he suppressed another shiver.

Once within the stone walls, however, the gatehouse was well-lit and much more inviting. Micah took Charles’ trunk and bid him go indoors, saying he was expected; in the vestibule he was met by a sprightly and buxom maidservant who took his coat and hat and led him into a sitting room. Here was a room that finally felt like a home: warm and cozy, furnished quite comfortably, with a fire crackling in the hearth and two great chairs drawn up beside it. In one of these sat a lady of somewhere between twenty and thirty years, wearing a rather plain black gown, with her pale hair sequestered in a modest chignon.

“The gentleman’s arrived,” said the maid.

“Ah! Thank you, Ellie. Mr. Neal, welcome, please come in.” She rose at once and drew the other chair out for him with a welcoming and very charming smile. “You must be frozen through after such a long journey. And in this weather! Ellie, bring Mr. Neal some tea, would you please? Do come and sit by the fire, sir.”

Charles advanced to the hearth, but he could not bring himself to sit. Cautiously he said: “You are Mrs. Bassett?”

“Lizzie, if you please. I am not a Mrs at the moment, but that is what one must write on envelopes.”

“Then... you are not the mistress of Blackwood?”

“Goodness, no! I am the housekeeper. I manage the household, and the estate in the master’s absence.”

He resisted the urge to take a step back. Surely it would be improper to sit before a fire alone with a young unmarried lady, even if she was technically his employer. She seemed to sense his reluctance, for she gave him a smile that was slightly teasing, but in a kind and reassuring way, not at all coquettish.

“We don’t stand on ceremony here, Mr. Neal. That is, we do when his lordship is home, of course, but he is home so rarely. Amongst ourselves we are less stringent about formal etiquette; the staff here are so few, after all, and most of us are of an age. But don’t mistake my meaning — they are all good Christian people, so have no fear, you have not entered into a den of iniquity.”

Charles was at a loss for a response to this. Her manner was so affable that he wanted to feel at ease, but “stringent formal etiquette” was by necessity his default. Could h really refer to her as Lizzie rather than Mrs. Bassett? Perhaps it was just that he was so tired and cold and hungry, but he was a bit mystified; the servants in this house did not seem at all to match the ancient grim exterior. What might the master of such a place be like?

The maid, Ellie, returned bearing a tea tray with a few biscuits. Lizzie passed him a cup which he accepted gratefully. He nearly dropped the fine china teacup with his cold-numbed fingers, and apologized immediately out of habit.

“Not at all,” said Lizzie. “You must be fatigued after traveling so long. The road from Lincolnshire is, what, ten hours? Twelve? Your room is ready and waiting for you, I made the bed up myself. Micah will have taken your things there already. So have a sip of tea to warm yourself, and I won’t keep you a moment longer.”

He sipped his tea, and at her urging he ate all the biscuits (though he managed to do so at a polite pace); this settled his nervous stomach somewhat, and sitting in the cozy parlor by the roaring fire, his exhaustion began to catch up with him all at once. He stifled a yawn, horrified by his ill manners, and finished his tea as quickly as propriety allowed.

“Do forgive me,” he said. “I was unprepared for such a warm welcome. I suppose I thought a baronet’s staff would be more...”

“Stuffy?” Lizzie offered, and his face burned as she smiled. “Well I’m glad to have disproved that notion. You are most welcome here, Mr. Neal. You will find all the servants quite easy to get on with.”

“And the master?”

Her smile faltered; she recovered instantly, but the momentary waver was not lost on him. Before he could wonder at it, she took the empty cup from him and stood. “Come, let me show you to your room. The fire will have warmed it nicely by now.”

She led him from the parlor down a long medieval gallery, with vaulted ceilings so tall the light of her lamp did not reach them. The stone walls were white-washed and hung with ancient portraits, heads of game, and weapons of various styles and ages. This house must have been built as an abbey; one could recognize it in the arched doorways and many-paned windows. There was an air of great age about the place: a sense of years gone by, of souls long departed.

“As you will be the tutor, I didn’t feel it right to give you a room in the servant’s quarters,” Lizzie said. “So I chose an apartment down the hall from his lordship’s rooms. My rooms are in the guest wing, so I felt this would be a more suitable location for you.”

She paused at an oaken door and withdrew a set of keys from her pocket. Seeing his face, she said, “I know it’s a bit odd to keep doors locked, but the young master gets into all sorts of things when no one is watching him. Of course now that you’re here, that will no longer be a problem! But, just to be on the safe side, you may wish to check your bedclothes before you retire.” Turning the key, she added, “He is frightfully fond of toads.”

Charles gazed down the darkened corridor into the shadows beyond. “The baronet sleeps down there?”

“When he’s home, yes. I try to keep the rooms aired out for him, but one never knows when he will suddenly appear. I do wish he would send word beforehand.”

“He spends that little time here?”

“He travels often — business and such. And sleeping in this house makes him rather melancholy, I think.” She opened the door and said brightly, “Ah! There we are.”

The bedroom was of a moderate size, but still twice as large as his dormitory room at Harnett, furnished in a simple masculine decor with dark paneled walls, a small but ornate fireplace, a matching wardrobe and bureau set, and a four-poster bed with a crimson velvet coverlet. Both wall lamps were lit, and his luggage sat waiting on the dressing bench at the foot of the bed. Charles could hardly believe his eyes: he had never slept in a bed so fine, let alone had such a bedchamber all to himself.

“This is for me?”

“Is it alright? I know it’s a bit dark, but the windows let in quite a lot of light in the daytime.”

“It’s wonderful. I’ve never...” He shook his head, unable to finish the thought, and she smiled and patted his arm.

“This is your home now, Mr. Neal. We are very happy to have you. Sleep as late as you like tomorrow, and then I shall introduce you to your charge.”

He mirrored her smile, and his heart brimmed with relief and joy. “Thank you, Lizzie,” he said. “And please, do call me Charles.”


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning Charles rose later than was his usual habit, but the sun still hung low above the tree line when he drew back the curtains in his room. The morning sunlight streamed in, and he marveled at the view before him: wide lawns and well-kept gardens with shaped hedges, clean-swept paths, and ivy curling round the lattices to make pruned stumps look less bare; and beyond that a vast countryside of rolling hills and wooded copses, with a silvery brook winding in between. How he longed to explore those acres, despite the frost encrusting the mullion on his window-panes; wanderlust had always been his weakness, and the lure of so much open country called to his spirit. But first, there were more important matters to attend to. Carefully he washed, shaved, cleaned his teeth, and dressed himself in his daytime clothes: white linen shirt and cravat, gray waistcoat and breeches, gray coat. Satisfied that he was as tidy as he could make himself, he ventured forth to meet his new pupil.  
The February sun striped the gallery with shafts of pale winter light, slanting in long bars from the tall windows above to the dark floor below. The corridor seemed to go on forever in both directions, and he began to fear he would get lost before he stumbled upon the parlor from the night before; but he had not traveled far when he heard the jingle of keys and saw Lizzie emerge from a side stairwell.

“You’re up early!” she said cheerfully. “I thought you would sleep all morning after traveling so long yesterday.”

“I’m an early riser. I slept very well, though, thank you.”

“Do you take breakfast? I have some in the tea room.”

“Thank you. And then perhaps I might be introduced to my pupil?”

“Yes, of course. I thought he would be down by now; likely he is battling with his valet over what clothes he must wear. That particular war is never-ending.”

She led him to a sunny and comfortable breakfast room, with white-washed trim and floral paper on the walls, a cozy fire in the heart, and a china tea service already laid out. Charles waited for her to be seated, then sat opposite her and enjoyed a hot buttered scone and a cup of tea with plenty of milk.

“This house is so beautiful,” he said. “The view from my room is extraordinary. Even in winter the gardens are lovely.”

“Yes, I do love it here. Of course, as in all old houses some portions are rather gloomy, particularly this time of year; but as long as one keeps to the sunnier areas, it’s very pleasant.”

“And you, Micah, and Ellie are the only staff who live here?”

“Along with the valet, yes. There are a few others who come in from the village each day, maids and cooks and such.”

“It seems like rather a large estate for such a small staff. Do you never get lonely out here, so far from society? That is... I mean...”

“Because I’m not married? No. I had a husband, God rest him, but since he died I’ve been content to stay on alone.”

He nearly spilled his tea. “Forgive me—”

“For what? You couldn’t know. I was very fond of my husband, but widowhood brings with it an independence that I never knew before I was married. Perhaps I shall marry again one day, who knows? In the meantime I very much enjoy my life here. This family has been kind to me, as it was kind to my husband. He was the groundsman before Micah came.”

“So there is a larger family, then?”

“No, only the baronet. Forgive me, I realized I never mentioned any details in our correspondence, did I? His lordship is so well-known here that I’m not accustomed to introducing him. How much do you know?”

“I know nothing of him.”

“Well, the family name is McLaughlin. The first baronet came to England with James I and was given Blackwood for his estate, and his descendants have owned it ever since. The current baronet is Sir Rhett.”

“Rhett? That is a Welsh name, isn’t it?”

“Is it? I believe his mother was dark-haired, perhaps she was of Welsh extraction. She died when he was young. His elder brother died when he was fifteen, making him the heir, and then the old master died some ten years ago. Sir Rhett is now thirty years of age, a widower with but one son, his only child and heir.”

“So many losses!” said Charles. “That must explain why he doesn’t like to reside here often. This house must be filled with memories.”

A sad smile crossed Lizzie’s face. “It is.”

She looked as if she would say something more, but at that moment a great tumult arose in the doorway. A diminutive young man wearing valet attire struggled to usher in a small boy: a child of perhaps seven or eight years with a cherubic face, lively blue eyes, and a mop of golden curls.

“I won’t do it!” the boy cried, wrenching himself from the servant’ grasp.

“Shepherd!” Lizzie exclaimed. “What on earth are you caterwauling about?”

“Chase says I must do up my collar because I have a tutor now! But I don’t want to!”

“I just thought he should make a good impression,” said the exasperated valet.

“I don’t care! It chokes me! I CAN’T BREEEEATHE!”

“Well my goodness gracious, Shepherd McLaughlin, you needn’t make such a fuss about it. If you don’t want to do up your collar, then leave it as it is. But you mustn’t blame your new tutor if he takes one look at you and deems you a slovenly urchin.”

The boy caught sight of him then, and stopped fussing with the collar long enough to stare at him in curiosity. Charles stood and came forward to greet him, and held out a hand as if he were introducing himself to an adult.

“Hello, Shepherd. My name is Charles. I hope you and I shall be friends.”

The child peered at him through narrowed eyes, evaluating him from top to toes. At length he said: “My father is taller than you.”

“Is he? Well, then he must be very tall indeed, for I myself am no Pygmy.”

Lizzie stifled a laugh. “Shepherd, really! Where are your manners? Is that how a baronet’s son addresses his tutor?”

“I don’t want a tutor,” was the instant reply. “I would rather play.”

“Well your father thinks otherwise, young sir, and therefore a tutor you shall have. You will be lord of Blackwood someday, and it’s high time you began your education. You are seven years old, after all. Now, if you are quite finished, would you please introduce yourself to Mr. Neal like a gentleman?”

Shepherd looked from Chase to Lizzie to Charles and back again, deliberating on this sequence of events. He then straightened himself with dignity and put on an expression of grave sobriety; giving Charles’ hand a firm shake, he said: “How do you do? My name is Shepherd McLaughlin. What are you going to teach me?”

“What would you like to learn? French? Mathematics? Latin? Science, history, poetry—”

“You know all those things?”

“I do, and so shall you. For example, if you learn the science of zoology, you will be able to go outdoors and name all the frogs, spiders, and insects that you come across.”

“...Really?”

“And if you work hard at your studies, I will teach you how to fence.”

“What’s fence?”

“It’s a kind of sport where one practices using a sword.”

The blue eyes grew large. “You can teach me how to fight with a sword?!”

“Are you quite certain?” said Lizzie. “He can be somewhat... boisterous.”

“Not at all. I have known plenty of boys like you, young Master Shepherd, and all they needed was a proper channel for their energy. It’s only natural for boys to want to run and play; the duty of the tutor is to turn work into play, so that both are equally enjoyable.”

“You’re not like any tutor I ever knew,” said Chase.

“I take that as a compliment,” replied Charles. “What say you, young sir?  
Shepherd ruminated on this in silence for a moment, and then he seated himself next to Charles at the table and reached for a napkin. “I don’t want to learn French. But I do want to learn science. And fence. May I have a scone?”

Charles looked to Chase, who smiled and nodded.

~

The next four weeks passed in a perfect idyll of new experiences. Teaching one student rather than dozens proved both a blessing and a challenge for Charles; his pupil was naturally intelligent and eager to learn, but lingering too long on any one topic resulted in fidgeting and complaints. After much trial and error they assembled a schedule and curriculum that pleased them both. In the mornings they studied basic concepts from a variety of subjects: arithmetic, composition, history, geography, science, and so on. The boy cared little for French and Latin, not from lack of aptitude but from lack of interest in the requisite repetition; the natural sciences, however, interested him greatly, as did history and literature, particularly tales of adventure. He applied himself to the best of his abilities, and though his overflowing indefatigable energy led to the occasional conflict, he was a sweet and good-natured child, and Charles grew as fond of him as any boy he had taken under his wing at Harnett. He considered himself truly fortunate in this, for his colleagues had warned him about the monstrous offspring of aristocracy and the torments they heaped upon tutors and governesses. Shepherd was rambunctious enough to displease a more severe headmaster, and he possessed a free spirit which could be mistaken for wildness (and which Charles secretly admired, wondering if it was a family trait), but he treated Charles first with civility, then respect, and finally with true affection.

They set up a schoolroom in a small library on the second floor near the nursery. It seemed to have served a similar purpose in years past; the shelves contained an excellent selection of titles on grammar, religion, history, art, zoology, botany, atlases, and the like (including all six volumes of Hume’s History of England), as well as globes and maps, slates and chalk, and supplies for writing and drawing. To this he added the few meager volumes he had brought with him: Latin and French grammars, a book of mathematical exercises, and a bound copy of Bede. He wondered if perhaps Sir Rhett had once been educated here, or if he had been sent off to a school in Europe like many of his class; no doubt Shepherd would be sent to such a school in a few years, if Charles could furnish him with a sufficient foundation of gentleman’s knowledge. It was the ironical lot of the English tutor that the better one performed one’s vocation, the sooner one would lose it.

In the afternoons they went outdoors for exercise, and when the weather was inclement they played at draughts, or toy soldiers, or sang songs while Charles played on the small pianoforte. Shepherd shared with Charles his most prized possession: a set of “jacks”, including a ball made of India rubber that his father brought him from abroad. Charles had never played the game (at Harnett such things were deemed akin to gambling), and he found it quite entertaining. For his part, Charles honored his promise and began teaching his young pupil the first postures and exchanges of swordplay, though they were obliged to use sticks of hazel-wood until he could obtain a set of proper cudgels. After watching Shepherd snap his third branch while pretending to be Robin Hood, he thought perhaps this was for the best.

February became March; the wind lost its sharpest edge, the sun rose a little higher each day, and the air seemed to grow lighter with the promise of spring. But the cold lingered, and though the rain grew less frequent and sky less drab and heavy, winter proved reluctant to release its icy grip. Every evening after his duties were done and his charge was left in Chase’s care, Charles took a turn through the gardens, often wandering far from the house and into the outer portions of the estate. It was wild and lonely country, but thrilling in its wildness, with a stark beauty in the rocky hillsides, bare orchards, and fields of wiry dead grass. Every day he looked for the first budding branch, the first primroses blossoming between the rocks, the first sweet-smelling violets springing from the muddy ground. One Sabbath morning, just after daybreak, he spotted a single golden celandine waving by the roadside. That evening he sat down by the fire in his room and drew the scene as best he could in his journal, using pastels borrowed from the schoolroom.

One cloudy Thursday afternoon, Shepherd begged for a respite due to illness; his belly hurt, he insisted, due certainly to contracting a hideous swamp plague. The more likely culprit was the amount of fruitcake he gobbled down at tea, but Charles granted his reprieve on account of the progress made that week. Leaving the boy in the care of Lizzie and Chase, he set out to enjoy an evening of wandering the estate alone. He allowed himself to meander unchecked and was soon lost in his own thoughts. He had so enjoyed the past month here; Lizzie and Chase and Micah and Ellie, and the village servants who worked at the estate, were all good friendly people who had warmed to him as if he were one of their own. He seemed to belong to this place even after so short a time, in a way he had never quite belonged at Harnett. Not that his years there were miserable, but he had never been especially close to his fellows; only now, after so many pleasant meals with Lizzie, did he realize that he had never had a true friend before. It was rather irregular to form a friendship with an unmarried lady, but their rapport never crossed the bounds of propriety, and with Shepherd always about they were rarely alone. How strange that he should live in such a vast fortress of a house with so few other souls living in it, and yet he felt less alone here than at the crowded school that had been his only family.

He watched the slanting bars of daylight grow lower and longer as sunset settled into misty gray dusk; the wind grew sharper, and he knew he must get back indoors soon or risk catching cold in the encroaching damp. An animal howled somewhere far away, and as he pulled his coat tighter he felt he should indeed like to return to the lights and warmth of the house, where the fires would be lit and Lizzie would have tea waiting in the parlor. He had wandered quite far, nearly halfway down the road leading to the village, to the steeper portion where it curved around the hillside along a rocky incline. It was growing dark now, and he quickened his pace to get home. As he made his way up the path he heard a dull noise growing louder, a rapid thumping which grew more and more urgent until it shook the ground — the sound of a horse at full gallop. Suddenly an enormous black shape burst into view, bearing down on him at a frantic speed. He shrank back against the rocky hillside just in time to avoid the tearing hooves, the snorting muzzle, the spurs of the booted rider — the horse shied in alarm, whinnying, and reared to avoid him — the rider jerked the reins, the back hooves slipped on the gravel — beast and man went down together, sliding off the path to land in a great heap on the soft brown grass. The horse at once sprang to its feet and shook itself from head to tail, shaken but unhurt; its rider tried to do the same, then swore loudly and sprawled back upon the gravel. His fright evaporating in concern, Charles rushed forward.

“Sir! Are you injured?”

He bent to help the rider to his feet, but he was shoved rudely away.

“Get off me, damn you.” Again he attempted to pull himself to his feet but was unable to stand up straight, and he sat down heavily upon a nearby boulder with a noise of pained disgust. A large white dog rushed around the curve and ran to him, barking frantically until it was waved back. “Quiet, Barnaby! Stop that noise.” Once more he tried to rise, but sat down again with a grunt and bent to snatch up his hat from the ground and dust it clean.

“Sir, I cannot leave you alone until I know you are unhurt.”

He looked up then, and Charles saw his face in what little light remained. His wheat-colored hair was too unkempt for fashion, and rather disheveled after his fall; his eyes were large and glaring, the color of the country around them; they were framed by strongly arched brows, over a Grecian nose with flared nostrils sharp enough to make his frown truly unsettling. Most unusual of all, he wore a full beard. Charles had never seen a gentleman with facial hair, only servants and peasants. And he was obviously a gentleman, from both his dress and his manner; his black riding coat was made of fine stuff and perfectly tailored, and at his throat was a crimson silk cravat. Little else could be discerned in the gloom, and he was given no time for further examination.

“What the devil are you staring at? Who are you, and what are you doing out here besides trying to kill me?”

“My name is Neal, sir. If you need help, I can fetch someone, I come from the house up there on the hill.”

The frown turned quizzical. “You live at that house? At Blackwood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“As what?”

“The tutor, sir.”

“Oh. Hmph.” He ran a hand through his rumpled hair, then donned his hat and brushed the dirt from his sleeves. “I never knew a tutor who was given to skulking about the byways at this hour. Are you sure you’re not one of Them?”

“Them, sir?”

“Them. The Fair Folk. One of the Seilie out working your mischief on poor unsuspecting travelers.”

Charles almost smiled. “I am no seilie, sir.”

“Aren’t you? You’ve got eyes like one.” He made as if to rise again, then sighed. “Well you’ve done your worst, but I’ve only sprained my ankle. You may do penance by helping me to my horse, and we shall call it even.”

Charles obliged him, ready to help. He got an arm about Charles’ shoulders, leaning heavily to avoid putting weight on the injured ankle, and together they maneuvered him to his feet. As they moved toward the road, Charles marveled; perhaps it was the angle at which the man loomed over him, but he appeared to be the tallest creature Charles had ever seen. It was really quite extraordinary: his peculiar coiffure and beard, juxtaposed with his fine clothes and well-bred manners, presented a strange and intriguing enigma. He smelled strongly of leather and horse, and with each grunting exhalation as they hobbled along came faint whiffs of alcohol. He had been drinking — that explained his rudeness as well as his recklessness.

“I have nothing to be penitent for, sir,” Charles said. “You rode too fast around a dangerous curve. If I hadn’t moved aside we should both have suffered more than a sprained ankle.”

“I’ll ride as fast as I like, thank you,” was the terse reply. “No one should be out here at this hour.” When they reached the horse he grasped the pommel and swung himself up into the saddle, snarling another oath between his teeth as his boots settled in the stirrups. “Now hand me my crop, seilie, and be on your way.”

Charles fetched the crop and handed it up, but made no move to walk on.

“Well?”

“You ought to go first, sir. I would not wish to find myself in your path again.”

Towering over him, the bearded rider gripped his crop on his thigh with one hand and his reins in the other. Peering down at Charles from beneath his slanted hat, he suddenly grinned.

“That is wise.”

Still grinning, he dug his spurs into the horse’s flanks; the fierce creature reared, its front hooves pawing at the air, and carried him off at a full gallop into the thickening darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

Despite the growing chill and darkness, Charles did not hurry on his walk back to the house. He wanted time to ponder the encounter he had just experienced, to imagine who the surly horseman might have been and why he rode so recklessly, flying down the path as if devils were chasing him. It was like a page from some adventure story: a highwayman evading the law… an idle nobleman out on his revels… perhaps a rake fleeing a jealous husband? He blushed at the idea. Such thoughts were not suitable for a Christian mind, but he had always been inclined to romantic imagination, and after spending a month in this remote country the inclination had only increased. By the time he reached the gatehouse he had spun an entire novel in his mind: a tale of melodrama and intrigue and forbidden liaisons, of dastardly deeds and fleeing in the night to preserve one’s ill-gotten gains. He was smiling to himself as he entered the courtyard, a guilty blush warming his cheeks.

Once he was within the stone walls of Blackwood, the cold air grew still and subdued; night seemed to fall all at once like a black curtain, startling in its abruptness. An owl hooted somewhere and he looked up, his grin vanishing. The house loomed high around him on all sides, stark black against an eerie purple sky. The windows on the north tower were all dark and bare, like shining eyes glittering down at him. The tower was a grim pile of stone, the last remnant of the original keep, incongruous and unsettling since he first laid eyes upon it.

_What rooms are up there? Does anyone use them?_  
_Dear me, no. It’s a dreary old place, no one ever goes there; nor could they, for the master keeps it locked._

In the darkness the spire looked even more ominous, almost menacing as it loomed over him. His footsteps echoed on the stones, and he quickened his pace. Suddenly he desired nothing more than to be indoors.

In the mudroom he dried his boots and left his coat on its hook, then entered the kitchen to find himself in the midst of a small commotion. Servants hurried to and fro in every direction, some carrying linens or pitchers or firewood, some preparing dinner at greater speed than usual, all moving with a swift sense of urgency. Moving from solitary darkness into this bright crowded action made Charles halt in his tracks, and he nearly collided with a passing cook; as he dodged out of harm’s way he heard Ellie’s voice.

“Who’s that? Oh, it’s you, Charles! What brings you back here?”

She carried a box of candles on her hip and a quill of tapers in her apron pocket. Charles opened his mouth to ask her what was happening, but at that moment there was a sharp bark and a furry white shape trotted in from the hall, sniffing at Ellie’s skirts as she rose on tiptoe to light a taper from the lamp by the door.

Charles stared at the creature. “That dog... where...”

“It belongs to his lordship.”

“What?”

“The master’s home!” Ellie cried. “He rode in not half an hour ago. We’re all in a bustle now!”

“The—?”

But she had already gone, rushing off to light the torchieres. The dog approached Charles and sat down at his feet, its white tail thumping in recognition. He stood blinking down at the animal while the servants moved around him, until Lizzie’s entrance initiated another bout of loud barks and tail-wagging.

“Barnaby, you know you’re not supposed to be in here! Go on, out with you. Out! Oh, Charles, there you are! Thank heavens. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“I went for a walk. What’s going on?”

“Sir Rhett is home! He told me nothing, of course, he never does, he simply appeared out of nowhere covered in road dust and asking for his dinner.”

“This dog is his?”

“He doesn’t bite. Barnaby, go on, leave Charles alone. Come, come, you must get changed right away. His lordship wants to see you.”

“Me? Why would he want to see me?”

“Who knows why he does anything? He told me he wished to meet the tutor as soon as Micah finished binding his ankle. It seems he fell on the road and twisted it; he says it isn’t broken, but I’ve sent for the doctor anyway. Come, you must change.”

She crossed the room to seize him by the arm and guide him from the bustling kitchen. By the time they entered the hall, Charles had collected his scattered wits enough to remove himself from her grasp and protest: “But I have nothing to change into. I have no formal clothes.”

“Oh? Well. Hm. Give me your jacket, then, and we’ll tidy you up a bit.”

She took his jacket and fetched a brush from her pocket to give him a once-over, while he hastily re-tied his cravat in the hall mirror. At least he was wearing his black suit: the breeches were a bit too snug, but the waistcoat had just been mended with new jet buttons, and in the low light the worn seams would not show. With the wrinkles brushed from his shirt sleeves and his wind-blown hair made neat, he was as presentable as he would ever be.

“That will have to do,” Lizzie said. “Come, he’ll be waiting.”

Charles followed her down the hall, frowning. Of course he wanted to present himself appropriately, but what sort of man would expect a tutor to wear evening clothes? He had no need for formal wear, nor any other type of fine attire. Such things were beyond his prospects, and he had never been one to overstep his place. Still, he found himself adjusting his cravat and smoothing his waistcoat, and more than once he glanced down at his boots to make sure they were clean.

Lizzie led him through the gallery and past the parlor where they took their meals, across the vestibule into the main sitting room. Charles had only been in this room once, during his first tour of the house; the furniture had then been covered with white cloths, the fireplace dark and empty. Now every sconce held a lit candle, every vase held fresh flowers, and a roaring fire threw great shadows across the dark walnut paneling and crimson-upholstered chairs. In one of these chairs, his foot elevated upon a velvet ottoman and his profile hidden from sight, sat the master of Blackwood Hall.

“Mr. Neal is here, m’lord,” said Lizzie.

“Let him come in, then,” replied a familiar voice.

“I’ll bring tea,” she offered, and left them alone.

Charles approached the heart and stood beside the mantel, silent, with his hands clasped tightly behind his back. Sure enough, there was the rider he had encountered: the same sharp-featured face, the same unruly hair, the same flax-colored beard. His traveling coat had been removed to reveal a white linen shirt, gold-threaded waistcoat, dark brown buckskins, and the scarlet silk cravat. His right boot was gone as well, the long leg stretched out upon the ottoman with the ankle bound over a fine white stocking. Its owner glared at Charles over the rim of a brandy snifter and raised a thickly arched eyebrow.

“Well?”

“...Sir?”

“Aren’t you going to apologize?”

“For what, sir?”

“For what, sir?” was the mocking reply. Lizzie entered and set a tea service on a table nearby; pointing at Charles, he snapped at her: “He is the reason my horse fell, did you know that? Skulking about the rocks in the dark like a Court spirit.”

She looked rather alarmed at this, but Charles replied without hesitation. “As I told you before, sir, I am no seilie. You were riding too fast around a dangerous corner. That was the reason your horse fell.”

Now Lizzie looked positively aghast; Sir Rhett, however, let out a blunt laugh.

“Is that so?”

“It is, sir.”

For this he was skewered with a long and piercing glower, followed by a smirk and a gesture toward the other chair. “Well, pray be seated, Mr. Neal. Give me some tea, Lizzie, won’t you? How much longer before dinner?”

“Not long, sir. Here you are. Will you have tea, Ch— Mr. Neal?”

“Yes, er, Mrs. Bassett, thank you.”

She passed him a cup and paused, watching the two of them stare at each other. Eventually she said, “I’ll fetch the young master, shall I? I don’t believe he’s gone to bed yet.”

Sir Rhett made an unintelligible noise which she apparently understood as an affirmative, for she nodded and hastened to exit. Meanwhile Charles sat stiff-backed in the chair, teacup in hand, waiting for his employer to drink before he took a sip. Sir Rhett downed the rest of his brandy, then set the empty tumbler aside and slurped a little tea.

“So, you’re my son’s new tutor. What did you say your name was?”

“Neal, sir. Charles Neal.”

“How long have you been living in my house?”

“Nearly five weeks, sir.”

“Five weeks? And he hasn’t sent you screaming into the night yet?”

“Shepherd is a very clever and sweet-natured boy. We get on quite well.”

“Sweet? My son is sweet? He’s a little hellion, is what he is.”

“No, sir. He merely requires attention.”

One eyebrow rose. “Do you mean that I pay him no attention?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir. I’ve only just met you.”

Now the other brow rose as well. “You have a ready wit for a tutor, Mr. Neal. Where do you come from?”

“Harnett School, in Lincolnshire.”

“Lincolnshire! A Lincoln schoolboy. And who is your family?”

“I have none.”

“None at all?”

“There is an uncle, I believe, but I have never met him. My parents died when I was a child, and I’ve lived at Harnett ever since.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Isn’t that old to be a tutor? Shouldn’t you be married by now?”

“I have few prospects for marriage, sir, and still less inclination.”

“Well you’re honest, I’ll give you that. Most men your age would be spending all their time hunting down a rich heiress in need of a man.”

“Are you not only thirty yourself, sir? And yet you are not married.”

Now the brows crashed together in a glare. “What the devil do—”

Just then the door opened, and a miniature storm burst into the room in the person of young Shepherd, followed by Barnaby the dog and a rather exasperated-looking Lizzie. The child bolted across the room and leaped into his father’s arms, nearly upsetting his teacup.

“Papa!”

“Damnation! Sit down, boy, don’t paw at me. Can’t you see my foot is hurt?”

“What did you bring me? Did you bring me something, Papa? Did you?”

“Ah ha, now you see his true nature! Yes, I brought you something, you little mercenary. It’s on the table there, have Lizzie fetch it for you.”

Lizzie opened a small traveling case and held it out for Shepherd’s inspection. He gasped in delight, and with both hands he withdrew a wooden toy sword and examined it in the firelight.

“A sword! Look, Charles, Papa has brought me a sword! Now I can learn fence even more!”

“Learn what?”

“I’ve been teaching him swordplay between lessons,” Charles replied. “Nothing dangerous, only basic single-stick. He enjoys it quite a lot, but all we had to start with were hazel twigs. Your gift is providential, sir; you have brought him the thing he wanted most.”

“But what will you use, Charles?” said Shepherd.

“Don’t worry about that,” prompted Lizzie. “What do you say to your father?”

“Thank you, thank you!” Still clutching the sword, he climbed into Sir Rhett’s lap and laid his curly head upon the gold-embroidered waistcoat.

Sir Rhett frowned and gave a growling cough of discomfort. “Alright, you’ve made your point. Go put it away for now, you ought to be in bed. It must be, what, nine o’clock? Go on. Take him to his valet, Lizzie.”

“Good night, Papa. Good night, Charles.”

Smiling, Charles said, “Good night, Shepherd.”

When they were alone once more, Sir Rhett fixed him with another look. “And just precisely what else have you been teaching my son?”

“Reading, composition, arithmetic, basic sciences, history—”

“Really? All that?”

“Some literature as well, and I should like to try music soon. We’ve not yet begun Latin or French; he has no interest in language, but I think it will come in time.”

“You speak French?”

“I do.”

“Really? Say something.”

Charles sighed. “Vous avez les manières d’un animal de ferme.”

“Hm. Well, you sound like you know what you’re doing. I never paid much attention to my tutors. I preferred to play.”

“That was Shepherd’s original response as well.”

“Was it?” That got something almost like a smile: a little smirk, half-hidden beneath the beard. “He’s as impudent as I was, that’s certain.”

“On the contrary; he’s spirited and a bit impulsive, but he has the makings of a fine student. He’s naturally curious, and very bright. His focus is already much improved.”

“Well, that is where we differ, then. I never did learn to listen.” He pulled himself up a little in the chair, then flinched and grimaced. The smirk disappeared; the frown returned. Sharply he said, “I will have you know my foot hurts like the devil, Mr. Lincoln Schoolboy, and I have not yet forgiven you. Now, if you would be so good as to go and tell Lizzie to bring me my dinner. I’ll have it in here, where it’s warm.”

“Of course.” Charles left his teacup on the tray and stood, betraying no offense at this brusque dismissal. Bowing politely, he said, “Good night, then, sir.”

“Mmph.”

At the doorway Charles paused. With his hand on the latch, he said quietly and without turning: “I’m glad you were not hurt, sir.” Silence answered him, and he left the room without further comment.

Sometime later, while eating their own dinner in the parlor, Lizzie asked him: “What do you think of his lordship?”

Charles considered a moment. “He is rather... abrupt.”

“That’s one way to put it,” She said with a grin, but as she reached for her wineglass the grin faded. “He was not always so. But then, we are all what life makes of us.”

“He wasn’t always so changeable?”

“Oh, no. That is, he’s always had a sharp wit, and a bit of a temper if put to it, but when he was younger he was actually quite merry.” She smiled over the glass, but the smile was wistful, even sad. “He’s a kind man by nature, but life has not been kind to him. You must remember he was never meant to inherit, and he has had to bear the burden of the estate alone.”

“But of course,” said Charles. “I had forgotten about that. How terrible that must have been.”

“Yes. Mother, brother, father, and wife, all in barely ten years. It’s really quite tragic when you think about it. He keeps himself busy, but it’s a lonely life. Excepting his son and his servants, Sir Rhett hasn’t a soul in the world.”

Charles had no memory of his parents, so the emotional effects of such a loss were difficult for him to comprehend. What must it have been like to grow up as the spoiled younger son, surrounded by one’s family, only to lose that family and be thrust into the role of lord of the manor, unprepared and without help or support, and all alone in the world? The concept of family might be foreign to him, but he understood loneliness very well.

“It must be very difficult. That would explain his… terseness.”

“He wasn’t always so blunt. He was quite charming when he was a young man, but the years have made him distant and melancholy. It’s... it's as if he has built up a great wall about himself, and no one is permitted to enter. He can be mercurial, but you must not take it personally. It’s merely his way. You’ll become accustomed to it, as we all have.”

“I’m sure I will.”

“He is a good employer, and he treats his tenants well. And he loves his son, even if he does not show it. He is an aristocrat, after all. But, little Shepherd is the only family he has left in this world.”

“What happened to his wife?”

In an instant Lizzie’s entire countenance changed. Her smile vanished; her hands trembled so that she nearly dropped her knife and fork, and she set them down with a clatter and reached for her napkin to cover her mouth. She did move not fast enough, however, and Charles saw her lips press together into a white line of horror and dismay as all the color drained from her face.

“Are you alright? I’m sorry — please forgive me, I didn’t mean to pry. I’ve upset you. Of course it’s none of my business. I apologize, I forgot myself.”

She recovered herself quickly, and resumed her former composure so smoothly that it was almost as if she had not faltered. She was clearly upset, but she clasped her hands together in her lap to hide their trembling and gave him an admirable facsimile of a smile. “Not at all. You caught me off guard, that’s all. You see, we never discuss the late mistress here, and so I’m unused to anyone mentioning her. You had no way of knowing.”

“I had no idea. No one ever mentioned the baronet’s past nor his family to me in any way.”

“No, they wouldn’t. No one speaks of her; not here, not in the town. No one. It is not a subject anyone wishes to revisit.” Seeing his distress, she reached out and gave his hand a comforting squeeze. “You mustn’t upset yourself about it, really. You didn’t know. I’m glad, actually — we’re friends, after all. Honestly I should have told you when you first arrived.”

A sudden chill ran through him. “Told me what?”

Lizzie paused. She hesitated, glanced around despite the fact they were alone, her eyes darting about as if the very walls were watching. At length she leaned forward over the bread basket, and Charles did the same. In a hushed voice she said: “Her ladyship died when Shepherd was an infant. That is all I can tell you. That, and that you must never, ever mention her in Sir Rhett’s presence. Never.”

“I— of course, no, I won’t.”

“Promise me, Charles. Promise me that you will never speak of her. Not ever.”

Softly he said: “I promise.”

She squeezed his hand once more. “Good. Then everything will be alright.”

With that she put on her usual bright smile, leaned back as if nothing had occurred, and changed the subject, commenting on what a delicious stew the cook had made for them. Charles lifted his fork to his mouth, but the meat had gone cold on his plate, and he found he was no longer hungry. He bit his lip, swallowing a cold lump in his throat, and pushed the plate aside. He shivered again; after a moment, he reached for the decanter and silently refilled his wine.


End file.
